


Merle Lives at the End

by harpydora



Series: Merle Dies at the End [3]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Episode 67 Spoilers, M/M, brief mention of Merle/Lucretia, gross old men being conflicted, gross old men being sad, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 13:39:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11601771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpydora/pseuds/harpydora
Summary: It's weird, the dissonance between having known this man for decades, having not seen him for years, and only just now remembering he exists. In another life, he would have made some sort of snide comment, but now all Merle can muster is a bland, "Long time no see. You look like shit."





	Merle Lives at the End

**Author's Note:**

> In before it gets jossed by episode 68. :P
> 
> This takes place immediately post-67, and is sort of a sequel to Merle Dies at the End (hence making it a series). But it's not strictly necessary to have read through 11.5k words of smut to read this.
> 
> My thanks once again go to HorribleThing because they are an enabler and encourage me to write things. <3 Also shout-out to tumblr user biscuit-and-jam for finding some embarrassing spelling errors for me.
> 
> I also have [a tumblr](http://strangeharpy.tumblr.com/). Please come scream with me about Merle and John (among other things).

It's weird, the dissonance between having known this man for decades, having not seen him for years, and only just now remembering he exists. In another life, he would have made some sort of snide comment, but now all Merle can muster is a bland, "Long time no see. You look like shit."

The smirk John flashes him is cracked in more ways than one. The way his skin stretches between the veins of opaline blackness looks painful. "Well, you only have yourself to blame for that," John says. "Please, have a seat."

Merle snorts. "Fat chance. You think you can try to kill my friends and then kidnap me to some weird place—which, by the way, the Parley Parlor is way nicer—and act like everything's hunky-dory and 'oh, look, a chess set, it's just like old times'? Nuh-uh. I'm not buyin' what you're sellin'."

"Perhaps your Parley Parlor is nicer, but you haven't brought me there in years. I've had to do the best I can with what you've left me." He gestures widely at the room, at the curls of dark energy, at the tidy chess set. "Though you're right. I was hoping for a chance to talk to you, for old times' sake." He tilts his head to one side, and Merle catches an echo of the expression he'd seen… not the last time they'd met, but the time before. It's so fresh in his mind that seeing it again, here, shot through evidence of John's deterioration, makes his heart clench.

Fuck. Damn it all. Merle grits his teeth and takes a seat.

Across the chessboard, John relaxes. Rolls his shoulders. The rigid seams of black opal grind against John's flesh, but it doesn't seem to bother him. "So, like you said, long time no see. Tell me, Merle, how have these years treated you? Because, as I'm sure you can see, they have not been so kind to me, and it doesn't look like you fared that much better."

Merle scoffs. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know."

"I would," John insists, and damn him for sounding so fucking sincere. "It's why I asked."

"How 'bout this," Merle says, grabbing the white queen in front of him and pointing it in John's direction. "Since you're so hot-to-trot for 'old times' sake,' why don't you answer a question for me, then I'll tell you how I've been."

There's no hesitation as John spreads his hands wide. "Of course. Please, ask away."

"What're we doing here, John? I mean, really?" Merle drops the queen back onto the chessboard in disgust. "People out there are dying. They're my _friends._ "

John nods as if he expects this. Folds his hands in front of him on the small table. His knuckles look almost crystallized with the way the skin of them has split. "You asked me a different question the last time we saw each other face-to-face. And, at the time, I gave you the best answer that I had. Do you remember that question, Merle?"

Merle nods, narrowing his eyes and saying nothing.

It seems like John expects this, too. He continues, undeterred, "I've had a lot of time to think over the course of my existence, Merle. About a lot of things, and in many ways. I'd thought about so much before I met you, and even more since I saw you last." He pauses as if to collect his thoughts. Merle still says nothing, just waits in expectant silence.

"I suppose that what I was hoping for was another chance," John says at length. "At having that conversation, I mean."

Merle's too taken aback to care about feigning disinterest. "You're kidding. You've gotta be." John says nothing, so Merle presses on. "You brought me here to—to _what,_ exactly? Confess your undying friendship? You wanna show that we're friends after all the shit you've pulled?"

When John doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't smile, Merle slumps in his chair. "For fuck's sake, buddy, you're about a century too late."

"I won't pretend that I had a long time to think since I saw you last," John says, "because that just isn't true. In the grand scheme of things, a few decades are _nothing_ to me. But maybe that should tell you how quickly I've come to realize that I… regret. How our last conversation went. How I couldn't recognize until it was almost too late that, in all my years—as John and as what you call the Hunger—I hadn't felt for anyone like I have come to feel for you."

"Holy shit. Holy _shit._ You're serious."

"Deadly so," John agrees. "Now, if I have satisfied your curiosity, may I ask how these past years have been treating you?" His eyes skate over Merle's face, torso, and arms; Merle finds that John is still able to make him feel self-conscious. "Perhaps they have treated you as well as I might have in the past."

Merle crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his soulwood hand into his armpit as if that would stop John from knowing about it. "I don't know, how d'you feel about chopping people's parts off? I'm serious, what are we doing here? You made it pretty clear we aren't friends. I've got family down there. If you want to pretend like we're friends, that's fine. Whatever. Just kill me quick and get it over with."

"That's just _it,_ Merle!" John snaps, and it's the most emotion he's shown yet. The anger does ugly things to the places where soft flesh meets other, less yielding matter. His hands unfold, ball into fists, bang on the table hard enough to knock a few scattered pawns onto their sides. "Don't you see? You asked if you were my friend and the answer I gave you was _wrong._ " He grimaces and glances away. "Let me prove it to you."

It's been years, but it's still so fresh. Merle's stomach twists into a knot as he weighs his next words. He could be snippy, could point out that it'd be awfully friendly of John to call this whole thing off. But at the end of the day, that wouldn't accomplish anything, would it? The longer he kept John talking, the better. And, gods damn him, he wants to know. Know how the conversation would have gone, know what John thinks their friendship might look like. "All right," he says at last. "Okay. Then I wanna know: am I your friend?"

Like a puppet with its strings cut, John slumps forward, barely catching himself on his forearms and knocking almost all the black chess pieces off the board. His shoulders shake, and for a terrible moment, Merle thinks he might be crying. But John looks up at him, the light casting half his face into craggy shadows, and he's _laughing._ "You still manage to take me by surprise. I was fairly certain you would've tried to inflict bodily harm on me, but I still thought that I had to try. And now I don't know what to do with myself." He shakes his head. "Gods, I have missed this."

Merle scowls. "Well? You gonna answer my question?"

The good humor drains from John's face, leaving it once again a stony mess. "The answer to that is one only you can give. For my part, I think I would like you to be my friend. Whether you reciprocate… well, that I couldn't say." He pauses, sits upright again, and starts to reorder the chessboard. "But, I have hope."

The ensuing silence sits heavy between them, broken only by the soft _clicks_ of the chess pieces being arranged. John doesn't look at Merle, only the task before him.

So many thoughts crowd each other in Merle's head. How could he want to be friends with someone who had systematically taken almost everything from him? Who would, in fact, take it all given the chance? What would John do if he refused? What would John do if he said yes? How could he let John talk him into such a thing?

Except he knows the answers, even if he doesn't want to admit them. Like it or not, something about John could still tie up his insides. If Merle refuses, John will definitely take everything, maybe even killing Merle in further pursuit of nostalgia. If Merle accepts… well, the longer he keeps John's attention, the better. Right? Fuck.

"Hope's a pretty shitty thing sometimes," Merle says. John's gaze snaps up and locks on Merle's face. There's something to John's features that looks almost like desperation.

Merle winces. Pan isn't answering, or he would be saying some kind of prayer under his breath. Asking for a blessing or clarity or a sign. Something to let him know how stupid he's about to be. "But sometimes it's all you've got and you just roll with it." He reaches out and takes one of John's hands in his own. The skin is cold, the black crystal veins so sharp that they could cut if John chooses to yank his hand away. It's so different from Merle's memories, so alien.

But John doesn't pull away. Instead, he grips Merle's fingers in his own and sighs. This is alien, too. Everything Merle remembers was so heated and forceful until near the end. "This is a much different conversation than I expected," John says at last. "But I should have expected that, too. No matter how hard I've tried, I feel like I barely know you at all."

"Oh, I don't know, you did a lot of knowing me with your tongue," Merle says. He's aiming for a light, teasing tone, but it lands somewhere in the territory of strained and husky. Despite himself, he feels his cheeks warming up at the memories.

There's that smirk again, but now it looks almost wistful. "Yes, I suppose I did. But it didn't teach me that much about you as an individual. I treated you very poorly. I'm afraid that I don't know how to be a good friend."

"All those people you've eaten and the only things you learned were dwarf anatomy and how to suck dick?" This time, Merle manages something like a joke, but John has taken to running his thumb over Merle's knuckles and it makes his tongue feel heavy in his mouth.

"And eldritch incantations," John adds. "And, belatedly, the proper way to treat a fellow post-coitus." He reaches across the space between them, which seems at once so vast and not nearly far enough. His motion is telegraphed, exaggerated so that Merle can see exactly what he intends and stop it if he likes. Merle doesn't pull away, so John's fingertips trace over his cheek and come to rest on his temple.

His thumb brushes over the tooled leather of Merle's eyepatch. "What happened here?"

Merle swallows thickly. "Lost it to a coupla liches."

John has the decency to look aghast, an expression his marred face wears poorly. "Not your elf-girl and her partner, surely?"

"No, not them. Different liches." It takes a moment for the full connotations of John's words to sink in. "Wait a minute. I stopped talking to you before that happened. How'd you know?"

"Merle, I have chased you across over a hundred different worlds, sent my feelers to find you, and you only ask me _now_ how I have observed things about you and your friends?" John rolls his eyes, another expression his face doesn't wear well. "Give me _some_ credit. Now, tell me, where are those liches now?"

"Dead," Merle says, and he tries desperately not to dwell on why John would ask such a thing.

"All liches are dead, for a given definition of the word," John says. He rests his palm against Merle's cheek and lets his fingers slide into Merle's beard.

"They're dead-dead, not lich-dead," Merle says, shivering.

"Shame." There is more depth to that single syllable than has any right to be there, but John's face remains placid. He shifts his grasp on Merle's soulwood hand and lifts it to his eye-level. "And this?"

Merle hesitates for a moment before finally hedging, "Lab accident. Had to get it amputated so I didn't get turned to crystal." He doesn't mention Magnus or Kravitz. The less John knows about specifics, he suspects, the better.

John's brow furrows. "Do you have any sensation?" He drags the pad of his thumb over Merle's knuckles again before leaning forward and brushing his chilled lips over the back of Merle's hand.

It takes a couple of tries before Merle manages to croak, "Yeah."

"Ah, very good," John says, sly smile tugging at his lips.

"What—what about you, huh?" Merle's voice is high and nearly panicked as he tries to wrest back control of the situation (as if he ever had it). "You're all… stony. What happened there? Can you still feel?"

"Oh, yes," John purrs. His breath is chill on Merle's hand. "You and your friends continue to vex me, and I fear it has caused some rather dire changes to my person. But I can still feel." The smile grows wicked as he turns Merle's hand over and presses his lips to Merle's wrist. Merle's heart leaps, and he thinks _oh_ and he thinks _fuck_ and he thinks that John has kissed him more gently in the last few minutes than he had in decades of parleys.

"John," Merle says, and he's not sure if it's a warning or encouragement.

"I would like to demonstrate to you exactly how much I feel." John's voice is low and dark and filled with promises that Merle is very familiar with. He shudders at the memories that rush to the forefront of his mind. Fuck, how can John _still_ do this to him?

He tries to tell himself that he's just trying to keep John occupied. He tries to tell himself that he's just buying his former crewmates time. He tries to tell himself a lot of things. Even though he knows Pan isn't listening, he whispers another brief prayer. Then he looks John in the eye. "Okay. Show me."

With a motion more fluid than his partially crystallized state should allow, John knocks aside the table between them, spilling the chessboard and sending the pieces skittering across the floor. He closes the distance between them. The hand on Merle's face slides into his hair and cups the curve of his skull. John tugs him closer. There's still that deliberate slowness, that offer of a way out. Merle stays still and lets John come to him.

The press of John's lips against his is shocking. It's not tentative, exactly, but it's soft in ways that the cracks filled with shimmering black stone would seem to prevent. He doesn't use this as an attack. He doesn't plunder. The skin is cool, and the stone is icy and unyielding. Perhaps that's the only unyielding thing about the gesture. When Merle doesn't pull away, John laces their fingers together, his skin sliding against the soulwood and catching on the places Merle hasn't had a chance to prune recently.

John kisses him like this for what seems like an eternity, it's so unrushed. He kisses like a man savoring the last drops of a fine wine: not to consume but to know and remember. When he finally pulls away, he lets his teeth graze Merle's bottom lip like a promise that sends a shudder down Merle's spine. John looks at him, gaze heavy-lidded and filled with bald-faced want. "You're so quiet, Merle," John says. "Am I not being friendly enough?"

"You're doing just fine," Merle assures him though his voice trembles. "I just… don't kiss my friends." A snippet of another memory, again far removed and yet still so fresh, floats to the surface: a night spent on a deserted plane in a deserted house with a younger Lucretia. Hastily, he amends, "Well, not usually."

John hums, starts running his fingers through Merle's hair almost absently. "And who _do_ you usually kiss, then?"

It's a trap. In the past hundred years and some change, the only person he's consistently been sexual with has been John, and they both know it. But there's no way he'll give John the satisfaction of hearing it. He grabs a fistful of John's shirt with his free hand and pulls John down for another kiss.

In the years they'd been fooling around, it had almost always been John in control, John doing the kissing, John giving the directions. The sudden shift in fortunes elicits a muffled, startled sound from John, but he doesn't pull away, either. Instead, he gives Merle's wooden hand a squeeze before disentangling their fingers and resting his hand on Merle's shoulder.

The gesture is so small but so intimate. Despite himself, Merle responds in kind, letting go of John's shirt and just settling his hands on John's waist. Even through John's clothes, he can feel the seams of black opal; they're frigid and unforgiving. His thumb catches on a particularly large vein of the stuff, and Merle can't help but wonder how far the damage goes.

As if in response to Merle's thoughts (though more likely in response to his fingers), John breaks the kiss long enough to sigh. "I'm afraid I'm not in the best physical form. It's difficult to keep oneself together when one is so starved." He kneels so that he doesn't have to bend down and his face is tilted up toward Merle's. That desperation is still written in the lines of his face.

It does terrible things to Merle's resolve.

"John," Merle says. It comes out a complicated syllable.

John doesn't reply, just leans up to press his lips to Merle's again. He nudges at Merle's lips with his tongue, and Merle remembers all the times that would have been a demand, not a question. He obliges all the same.

Merle could characterize the previous century's kissing with words like "pressure" and "force" and "dominance" and "teeth," but now… Now it's "hesitation" and "uncertainty." John tastes like ice and melancholy.

It's Merle who breaks the kiss this time, planting his hands on John's shoulders and pushing him back. His words are breathless. "John. Don't get me wrong, this is fun, but… What're you hoping to accomplish here?"

John closes his eyes as if in defeat, and Merle is struck not for the first time at how long John's eyelashes are. "You never admitted to being a masochist, Merle, so why are you making me admit to this?"

The reminder of the age-old question startles a chuckle out of Merle. "You know what? Sure. Lookin' back on the last hundred or so years, you're probably right. I'm a sucker for punishment."

John huffs out a laugh of his own. "Who knew that it would only take years of wheedling and then not seeing you for more than a decade to finally get you to be honest." He shakes his head, the good humor falling away. "Merle, I think of you as my friend. The only one I have. Perhaps the only one I've ever _had._ I want you to be with me."

Merle's heart thuds in his chest, That… had not been what he was expecting. He swallows, clears his throat, tries to speak. It takes him couple more moments before he's successful. "I—Listen, I want to be your friend. But I've got family down there. I can't just—just _sit_ here with you and let you do whatever you're gonna do."

He doesn't know when his hands began to shake, but he tightens his grip on John's shoulders just a little, until the trembling is less noticeable. "If you wanna be my friend, stop this. Just stop this, come back with me, have a look around. I'll—I'll introduce you to my kids. You can meet my ex-wife; you'll hate 'er. I'll take you to Goldcliff and tell you about the time I won the battlewagon race." He's babbling. He _knows_ he's babbling. But he's every bit as desperate as John. "C'mon, there's a lot of shit down there that's worth seeing first-hand. Hell, you always talked about meeting the ol' crew. We could do that, too, but they'll probably try to kick your ass."

With each word, John's expression grows sadder. Finally, he reaches up and presses a finger to Merle's lips, shushing him. "Merle… I appreciate what you're trying to do. You don't want things to change. You've been a devout cleric of Pan for longer than I've known you. It's…" John trails off, the ghost of a sad smile on his lips. "It's heartening, I suppose, that you want to do these things with me. But it's been eons, Merle. I'm _so close._ I've come too far. Maybe if I'd met you millennia ago, I might have taken you up on your offer.

"But, then again, you weren't alive millennia ago, and I know now that I am a much different creature from what I was then." John lets his hand fall away, trailing his fingers through Merle's beard. "Thank you. This was more than I expected. More than I think I had any right to hope for." He pushes himself to his feet, bending briefly to dust nonexistent dirt from the knees of his trousers. "When we meet again, it will be as two friends who are, unfortunately, on opposite sides of a chessboard. And after that… well, I hope to find your consciousness again once the light of creation is mine and this plane has joined me in transcendence."

Merle opens his mouth to protest, to tell John that it's never too late to change (gods, hasn't he learned that himself?), to scramble for the right words, to stop him. But it's no good. Between one thundering heartbeat and the next, he's back in the elevator. The doors stand open onto a dark and deserted hallway, and Merle is alone.

"Fuck." His hands still tremble. " _Fuck._ "

But standing there swearing won't accomplish anything. So Merle grits his teeth, balls his hands into fists, and heads into the dark.


End file.
